


Roll

by Ladycat



Series: Happy Endings [5]
Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, College, M/M, Post: s05e22 Not Fade Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:38:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was white residue on the bottom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roll

There was white residue on the bottom.

It sounded so clinical - _residue_. Like he was on one of those god forsaken tv shows that sprouted up like weeds in the past ten years, wielding science like too many wielded their spell books and grimoires. Bibles, too, but those Spike - 

"Maaaaaaaaaan," someone said, laughing as the sound dragged out endlessly. "This is. Wicked."

Spike studied the plastic baggie again. The scattered remains of leaves and a few twigs didn't bother him. Hedonistic fellow that he was, he wouldn't begrudge a time to be mellow and laugh and eat themselves out of house and home. Could be fun, really. Feeling that sweet burn, knowing his lips were fitted where Connor's had been just moments before and pulling all that air in, holding it, chest out and his shirt off, of course, and the way Connor would just _stare_ at him...

Only Connor had always said no. Always. Add in a healthy dose of fear and self-loathing in fists that curled up tight and hard on narrow thighs meant it was the last time Spike had brought it up, too. Hedonistic didn't mean stupid. Or cruel.

He was better at intentional cruelty, anyway.

"The lights are moving," someone - okay, _Connor_ \- said, the words slipping like feet dragging skidded snow-prints, his oddly precise accent even sharper. "See 'em swirl? Pretty."

White. There was _white_ powder among the forest floor rejects and Spike crushed the bag in his hand.

"Honey," he called. "I'm home."

His too loud voice brought on a series of groans and half-garbled denials. "Looud," Connor complained, twisting over the back of the couch to glare with unfocused, red-rimmed eyes. "Don't be so loud."

He wanted to be loud. Wanted to shout and rage and shake this idiot boy who never figured out the rubrics of life Spike was _constantly_ teaching him because there was _fucking white powder_ in the bag. Rage (fear, ice-cold and spreading) made his undead heart flutter in his chest. 

So he took off his boots to Connor's grateful sigh and sat on the couch. Hard.

Connor immediately twisted into his lap, hair spilling like wine over his belly and thighs and smiled the dopey, joyous smile of the truly stoned. "Spike! You're home."

"Looks like I'm late, though. Missed the party."

"Noooo, no party. Just me. Me and - hey, where'd she go?"

 _She_. Ignoring the way his stomach dropped - because Connor was an idiot around girls, caught up in between two worlds, two sets of memories, and neither of them understood that women were people, were things other than sex and love and lust and treasures to be coddled and protected and _feared_ , and it made him stupider than usual; easier than usual, this boy who knew himself better than all the patch-work scars implied - Spike started stroking Connor's hair. He was growing it long again, curling in pretty ringlets around his shoulders. At least, he better be, because Spike wasn't going to sport dandelion fluff for nothing.

"Mmm. That feels good." A purr lead to a full-body shudder, an arch and a roll of hips in unbuttoned jeans, treasure-trail highlighted by a dull metal frame, that almost distracted Spike entirely. The way he pushed out naked feet, the long bones of his toes visible as if his whole body tingled just from Spike's fingers running through his hair, scratching his scalp. It was _hot_ , Connor's head tipped back for easier access, his nose swooping out into a single point above a half-open mouth, pink as sunrise as he breathed a sigh of utter contentment. "Don'stop."

Almost. "I won't. Gonna tell me who she is?"

The giggle, a real one found in children instead of boys who'd never been, caught him off guard. "No. Nope, no, won't tell. Can't maaaaaaaaaaaake me."

The baggie rested on the cushions beside him. It was sealed, still, blue and yellow pressed into sickly green. He could open it. Stick in his nose, lick at powdered fingers and hope he could remember what tasted like what. Hope it wasn't something new, designer labeled like the jeans Spike purchased just to piss off Angel, the ones that made Connor stare at his ass like it was some precious jewel or painting, too valuable to be allowed out in public. He could do all that instead of smooth his fingers down a river of gleaming hair, twist it into elflocks that made Connor gasp, chest heaving as he lost himself to a blissful world of nothing but sensation.

Another time and place and Spike would skim his palm down a shirt that read _mediocre and loving it_ to slip his fingers where Connor was already reaching up to meet him. He'd stroke and pull and make dirty jokes about how wanton Connor was right then, already making that breathy little moan that meant he was ready for anything Spike wanted, anything that would prolong the feeling he wallowed in. Spike could strip him off and play for _hours_ like this, and Connor would just flutter those lashes dark against a flushed cheek, would arch up and beg and let him, whispering _rent-boy_ while he showed off those slim hips and narrow frame, feet linked behind Spike's neck, and maybe even _your boy_ because when he was like this, subsumed into sex that had no boundaries, no memories to weigh him into choked-off silence, he knew how to drive Spike _mad_. Blind and deaf to everything but this slinky child who batted his eyes without ever knowing what he was doing, iris gone clear gray with want, too young and too innocent the way he'd say - 

"You stopped. Spiiike," was pouted up at him. Long fingered hands, far more elegant than Spike's, rubbed against his forearms. Spike looked at the neatly trimmed nails and the way the joints seemed almost too big for the narrow digits. The way they fit together in some knotted whole, each notch made to fit the one beside it. The way they looked against his skin, pale enough to be dead and hairless against the thickness of Spike's forearm and the burnished hairs that lay along the length.

And fuck, it had to be in the _air_. Because Spike was too focused on colors and sensations. The tactile need to touch Connor's smooth skin and smoother hair. Widening his legs so the curve of Connor's skull settled more squarely where he needed it and oh, he was a fucking moron, wasn't he.

"Ginger. Liz," he corrected himself. "That's who was here."

Connor's smile was sharp as a promise made in darkest night. "She likes being called Ginger."

"'Cause she's got taste." Ginger, the fiery redhead Connor studied with off and on. The one who feared nothing and dragged them both to this party or that rave. The one who indulged in a few pet hobbies that made Spike smirk and tell her tales just to see her eyes go wide and her breasts heave under her low-cute tees, while Connor made old-man faces and lectured her on how not to die before she was twenty five.

Ginger, who liked Connor a lot. And Spike. Who had caught Spike's concerned glance the last time she was over, watching Connor's tense shoulders and jerky movements, biting out a frown that had nothing to do with the questions they struggled to answer.

He was going to kill that bitch.

"Don't call her a bitch!" Connor protested, drunkenly loud. "She's not a bitch, she's niiiiice. Sweeter than pie."

"I'm the one that calls her pie, you call her - fuck. Gimme the phone."

He was not going to make sure she'd gone home without crashing and dying. He was going to curse her out like only an undead fiend could. Or he would, if Connor wasn't frowning at him, head rocking back and forth in a way that made him forget just about everything but biting his chin and pulling down the collar of his shirt to taste that sweet red blush.

"Nope, no phone. Oh!" Connor laughed again, this time smooth as aged whiskey. "I'm supposed to tell you ee."

Spike stared. "E-what? Eek? Wouldn't mind making you scream a bit..."

Another laugh, silken and rich, a scarf that slid over his skin until all the little hairs were raised. "No. Ee. Five, after dee."

There was more babble but Spike stopped listening. Not the sound _ee_ , the bitten off noises of surprise he delighted in producing in Connor's friends. _E_. The drug.

"Love when you do that. The way you just - _gnng_." Connor arched, pushing his stomach into the hand Spike had been petting him with. Spike watched that, fingers on maroon cotton, vaguely aware that petting hadn't been a command he remembered giving. It felt nice, though. The shirt was soft and there was all that skin underneath, shivering as he used the flat of his palm in long, languid strokes or traced designs with the tip of his fingers. Connor liked being touched this way.

He'd never said so before. In fact, he'd denied it more than a few times, head turned away and the words coming out fast. No, no, he didn't like that. Not at all.

"How the hell did she get you to take this?" And, more importantly, how the hell was it affecting him, because ecstasy didn't exactly come in an aerosol spray can.

Connor shifted into the touch, jeans riding lower and lower on his hips. Pretty skin, all smooth and pale and that line of hair that Spike wanted to _bite_. "Don't remember. I was... sad. I didn't want to be sad. It made you sad, too."

There was a trick to Connor's voice. The way it deepened into something that was still tenor, but _lush_ , rolling like water on the boil, like velvet blankets wrapped up tight. Husky, maybe, instead of deep. Rich. Spike met Connor's crystalline gaze, direct for the first time in - in weeks, maybe, and let himself fall in.

"I was cold all the time. That's what I remember. Cold and hungry and he would wait until I did something, recite a line of scripture or kill my dinner. It didn't matter. I had to _earn_ blankets and something that wasn't just raw meat. I thought that's how it was supposed to be. I thought every place was cold and full of caves. That's where we lived for the first couple of years. When I was old enough to start doing things on my own, we moved somewhere else. A better place for teaching. And maybe because... because he didn't want me reminded of a time when he _had_ taken care of me. Because he did. He - I wasn't just some weapon he was honing."

Spike couldn't close his eyes. This boy was warm and well-fed, well-fucked and well- _loved_ , and if Angel had his way he'd never be anything else. But Angel only rarely had his way, and Connor had had nightmares for the past two weeks. Sharp, angry things that left both of them bruised and quiet because Connor wouldn't answer and Spike had to ask. Nightmares Spike had wanted to suck away like the leech Connor sometimes called him, lancing a wound that Connor would rather let fester.

Except not.

"I wanted to love him," Connor whispered, blood shot eyes locked on Spike's. "I still do, sometimes."

That wasn't the end. Words spilled out, oceans of memories that Spike normally had to ferret free, playing mental games just to bleed some of that history out of its locked prison. It always left a bad taste in his mouth. Games like those should've been fun, sex and silliness. Not about - about _this._

"I want to tell you. Sometimes. Most of the time I don't think about it. I know that I _can_ tell you, and that... I like that. I like that I can touch you, everywhere, anywhere, and you're okay with it. You want it."

A pretty request. Spike answered it, of course, his lips on Connor's and his hands moving everywhere. He remapped every inch of this beautiful boy that blinked up at him with something like a smile, "I totally killed the mood, didn't I," bangs falling into his eyes to catch on his lashes. Their clothes vanished at some point and Connor was _still_ talking, "This is the first time I haven't been naked when we talk. Really talk, and hey, I am naked and oh, god, I love your mouth, I - _please - "_

Because the mood wasn't broken. And Connor was right, it took sex and exposed skin for them to reach inside to where their darkest lay. Or drugs, now, and Spike flattened his tongue against the cock in his mouth, sucking like he could pull more than just bitters and cream, like he could take all the bad and swallow it down, to hold it deep where his own twisted memories rested. He was _equipped_ for that, already broken - dead - and Connor -

Connor was writhing, drug-flushed and smiling as he thrust up into Spike's mouth, babbling the way he never did as he said, "Love you," and "I want to do this again, is it okay if I do this again? There are - _god_ \- things that I need to say and it felt good, felt - oh, oh, god you're so good at this. She knew you'd be there soon, it's why she was okay with leaving. I wanted to be with _you,"_ and Spike held onto his hips, pressing marks that might last a whole entire day after as he bobbed and sucked and said yes the only way Connor would truly believe.

After - after, when Connor threaded his fingers with Spike's and jerked him off hard and fast, still lazily stroking him despite come tacky under his fingers; sensation overload that kept Spike lost in his own blissed-out haze, pliant underneath Connor's weight. After, Connor kissed the shoulder he was pillowed on. "If I say sorry, will you hit me?"

Spike thought about that. "Might. Not if you keep touching me like this." Sandpaper. Sandpaper and dust ground into skin and Spike loved every second of it. "You want a next time?"

"It wasn't... so bad."

He didn't mean the sex. Spike mulled over what 'it' might entail. Too many layers and Connor breathed steadily, almost snuffling against his neck. Tucked up like a child in Spike's lap.

Only he wasn't.

Whether Connor meant drugs in general, or this new way of giving himself respite - it didn't really matter. Spike was game for both. _Wanted_ both, and he didn't bother to stop his grin. Connor would feel it. "Bet I can get you into a dress when you're all hopped up like that. Maybe even stockings. I do love stockings on nice, shapely legs."

"Perv," Connor accused. But he was grinning too, and shivering as Spike stroked up and down his bent leg, and for once - one moment - there were no shadows of other in his kiss. Nothing but Connor, pure as mountain air and just as sweet to taste. "And maybe. With the dress. But only if we're alone."

There were a lot of _only if_ s Spike was thinking of. That'd come later, though. For now all that mattered was wrapping his arms tightly around Connor's body and holding on.

And hastily grabbing the plastic baggie up and away from a curious kitten with a single ring of white around her left ear shouting, "No, bad Squeak! No drugs for you!", while Connor laughed himself sick.


End file.
